


Lincoln Memorial

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode: s02e10 Noël, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-08
Updated: 2001-09-08
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: A little poem related to Josh and his PTSD and inspired by the lack of J/S inNoel





	Lincoln Memorial

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Title: 'Lincoln Memorial'  
Author: Anna Rousseau  
Fandom: The West Wing  
Genre: Poetry/Angst  
Category: JL/SS  
Rating: PG  
Archive: Please, just tell me where  
Set: Post-'Noel', pre 'Leadership Breakfast'  
Spoilers: 'In the Shadow of Two Gunmen' & 'Noel'  
Summary: A little poem related to Josh and his PTSD and inspired by the lack of J/S in 'Noel'.

Notes: Okay, this is the first West Wing poem I've written, it just came to me I thought I'd write it. Feedback is devoured!

Disclaimer: I don't own the West Wing, I don't own Washington DC, and if you don't like it, I'll hire Sam to bust you like a piñata.

  


"LINCOLN MEMORIAL"  
==================

Quiet  
Can you hear what he hears  
The cacophony in the silent night air  
He sits at the foot of a President long dead  
Coffee hot in one hand  
His head in the other

The still nocturnal calm carries every sound  
Tyres wailing, skidding across the tarmac  
Shoes tapping on marble steps  
The shutters of cameras capturing images of monuments to the idea of America  
Each photograph taken produces a shot of noise  
Loud as the crack of a gun

The he notices it  
The bitter taste in his mouth  
It could be the coffee  
But he knows what it really is

He tries hard to trick himself  
To ignore the tourists' enthusiastic photography  
Each snap of a shutter is amplified in his head  
Sounding familar  
An unwelcome return of the old enemy

He finds his hand clenched  
Coffee spilt in pools around him  
Crimson welts blossom across the skin  
Even the burns do not bring a ceasefire  
The insistant snapping  
The gunshots  
The paper cup is tossed aside and he stands

He finds himself against a slab of stone  
Concentrating on keeping his spine straight  
His eyes are shut to the light of the stars  
And he breaths  
And he tries not to think of Roslyn   
And he tries not to think of the shots  
The screams  
He tries not to think of the blood

A hand materialises on his shoulder  
His right eye opens cautiously  
The air is quiet now  
Truly quiet  
Quiet to the depths of space  
A serenity settles over him

The hand is attached to an arm  
The arm finds itself around his shoulders  
The arm belongs to a body  
The body into which he collapses  
Nothing is spoken  
His mind is quiet now  
Peaceful  
Tranquil  
Serene  
This body could continue such a list at length  
But the body is of a man with few words for this occasion

And for now they hold each other  
And it is enough right now  
And it is something they have never done  
Not like this  
Their heads are pressed together  
Fingers entangled in thick, warm locks  
Hair brown on black

He manages to keep back the tears  
The tears the embrace is seducing him to spill  
And then he draws back  
He takes a breath and nods  
The other simply rubs his arm

They start to walk past Lincoln  
Past the lovers on their midnight rendezvous  
Past the gates  
Past the shops  
He looks at his friend as the street lamp's orange light bounces off his ebony hair  
A bar across the street blinks with neon lights  
Luring them in  
After a day like today they need a glass of bourbon  
And neither of them drink alone that night

***  
Feedback is much appreciated, I'd like to know what you think of WW poetry...  
  



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